Appassionata, A Tearing of Souls
by White Silver and Mercury
Summary: use and abuse and castration of pretty boys, dark themes, 18th-century Venetian virtues and vices, multipairing / My soul, your spices, should no more be myrrh. For only with the splendor of the laurel wreath will the anxious longing be satisfied...
1. a departure

**APPASSIONATA – A TEARING OF SOULS**

**Disclaimers:** I do not own.

**Warnings/Ratings:** **M** in general, though ranging from **T** – **M**, for mature scenes and ideas, sometimes explicit activity, use and abuse and castration of pretty boys, dark themes, superfluous remarks on Venice's beauty, and references to any and all decadent 18th century secrets and vices

**A/N:** This isn't an entirely historically accurate fic, as in this particular era the most famed conservatories were mostly in Naples. The Republic of Venice was still somewhat reclusive in the years before Napoleon's invasion, but for the fic I'm taking the creative liberty of using one of the most beautiful places in the world – 18th century Venice, the stunning Serenissima. If this is the first time you've been introduced to such a scenario – the singing schools for castrated boys – and it piques your curiosity, I highly, highly recommend _Cry to Heaven_ by Anne Rice, the movie _Farinelli_, and/or listening to some Vivaldi, Scarlatti, and Greg Pritchard when the moment calls. c:

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><p><em>appassionata, <em>_part the first _

_la primavera_

* * *

><p><strong>I.<strong> a departure

_You're not Farinelli, boy!_

The words had been spoken in a low hiss, hardly soft and yet somehow so loud in the big empty hall. He could still recall the coarse echo of them around the moldering dining room, the way the mustiness of water rotting the grand palazzo was still there even behind the smells of hot dinner, and their echo was sharp and icy like the rage and disgust crystalizing in his father's narrowed eyes. And the discomfort had been palpable on the air, hot between his brother and him, heads bowed and eyes cast away because contending with their father was like trying to mold cold hard marble that had already been set for tens of years.

Yes, it had been in this same dining room with the scents of dust and mold and extinguished candles and the ever-present familiarity of the Canal from outside the tall windows that Tokiya had felt the bleak weight of shame crushing him, suffocating him, like the stench of the water in the lower floors of the house, as his father had torn his dreams to shreds with those words—and then again it was in this same room that the devastation from that had suddenly and inexplicably been transformed into innocent rejoice when his father had put a warm hand on the back of his neck and said with wine on his breath, _Is that truly what you want, my son? To sing? _

And here he was again.

Tokiya reached up and ran his fingers over the gilded edge of a tall portrait he'd known his entire life, the portrait of his grandfather and his uncles and his father, the smell of turpentine barely perceptible beyond the perfume of mold that was growing stronger and stronger with every passing year.

"Your trunks are at the door, Signore," the old valet said, breaking the silence at the threshold of the dining room. He spoke carefully, voice thin enough already, as if there were some fragility in the air he was afraid he might destroy should he be too intrusive.

Tokiya nodded. "Thank you."

"Your father wishes to see you," the valet added quickly, and when Tokiya turned, he'd already bent into a sweeping bow. He was probably avoiding Tokiya's eyes. Tokiya didn't blame him.

There was a sense of death in the air as he moved up the cool marble stairs to his father's office. He paused at the doors to the loggia balcony, brow knotting. The way the light sparked off the windows of houses opposite, the gold and the Brunelleschi adornments like a city painted on fraying canvas, distracted him for a moment.

He smelled the tobacco before he even passed through the door into his father's office. The man didn't deign to meet his eyes directly. The French furniture looking out of place and the atlases and Renaissance frescoes dancing on the walls between packed bookshelves, there came the echo of shouting gondoliers and laughter in the narrow streets.

"You will not tell anyone."

How was it possible that his father's voice could rumble like thunder, so low and gravelly and yet with such clout? Tokiya felt himself lowering his eyes, cowed, but then he steeled himself and met his father's gaze over the thick Flemish desk. There was a lamp of Murano glass, unlit and crafted so perfectly.

"Tell anyone what, Father?" Tokiya murmured, and it startled him how he could wear a straight face as convincingly as if a mask.

"Don't test me." His father uttered a cold laugh, stemming perhaps from the ice in his eyes. Tokiya bristled. "You know very well. You will not tell anyone your blood is Ichinose. From here on out, you'll be known by your stage name only: _Hayato_."

"But Father—" And Tokiya saw the darkness snap in his father's eyes, but he could not stop himself from arguing. Part of him was so ashamed of his own voice, but he was too enraged. "—Father, I'm only going to the conservatorio for further lessons—to perfect my voice so that—"

"Tokiya, you have been nothing but a disgrace from the day you expressed that gross desire to sing! You could have anything, my son, and you want to _sing_?"

"If that's the case, Father, why did you permit it for so long? Was it the lure of money? And now that the money's at risk, you just can't stand to face your own accountability, can you? Father, I don't have regrets! _I want this_—"

"Don't raise your voice at me, boy! Go on, get your 'formal training' if that's what you call it, but know that when you're through, there will be no place for you here. You can pursue this petty dream of yours. Your brother, however, I can rely on. I can trust him with the family's responsibilities. Call yourself my son no longer, Tokiya! You've betrayed the Ichinose name and I simply cannot forgive you!"

His father was sending him off with all the feeling of banishment, and Tokiya was stricken.

It was unjust. It was completely twisted. Tokiya knew it, and that was the worst part: the inability to change what he knew was wrong.

His footsteps echoed down the marble hall, tapestries and rich portraits watching him as he moved. There, his trunks at the door, and the wizened valet waiting for him. And there, his brother, pulling him to his chest in a strong desperate embrace, trembling hands and the scent of clean linen, the crunch of brocade, the clasp of hands on his face and the whisper in his ear: "My brother, I'm so sorry, I'm so very sorry, know that this is not what I wanted for you at all—"

"It's not your fault." Tokiya pulled his brother's hands from his shoulders, shrugging. He could feel the darkness of his own expression, jaw tight and eyes sharp. He felt the terse smirk as it crossed his face, the ghost of a deadened smile. He met his brother's eyes as the servants opened the broad doors and started moving his trunks to the waiting coach below the house. "I'll prove him wrong, you'll see. I'll prove to him this isn't some fleeting wish of mine, just wait."

"I believe that."

"Take care of him for me."

"Write to me. Better yet, I'll write to you. I want you to visit if you can."

"I won't be far."

He was essentially orphaning himself. He was aware of it.

Years ago, wine had aided in his father's acceptance just as brandy in the warm milk had soothed the pain after the operation and his father had stood at the foot of his bed with his hands clasped behind his back, husking, _If only your mother could see you now, you little bastard... You're as stubborn as she was, and you have her eyes..._

And now he was no longer Tokiya Ichinose but Tokiya Hayato, the training singer, and leaving the Ichinose palazzo meant denying himself everything that had come to him in birth. This grand house, this protection, this bloodline, this respect, this money, this power... All, thrown away as if a letter into the fire, for a dream that burned in his chest like the most destructive of flames.

And the bravos sneered at him, the horses stomped and snorted, and when the coach finally jerked forward, rattling on the flagstones, Tokiya finally released the breath he'd been holding.

On to the Conservatorio di Saotome.

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><p><em>The curtain rises...<em>


	2. the conservatorio di saotome

**APPASSIONATA – A TEARING OF SOULS**

**Disclaimers:** I do not own.

**Warnings/Ratings:** **M** in general, though ranging from **T** – **M**, for mature scenes and ideas, sometimes explicit activity, use and abuse and castration of pretty boys, dark themes, superfluous remarks on Venice's beauty, and references to any and all decadent 18th century secrets and vices

**A/N:** Instead of publishing one single lengthy chapter at a time, I'm trying a new structure with this fic, posting multiple scenes at once. By the way, how awkward is it to mix Italian and Japanese names? lol é_é

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><p><em>appassionata, <em>_part the first_

_la primavera_

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><p><strong>II. <strong>the conservatorio di saotome

It was the end of April. The Easter Oratorio had been a wild success but it left in its wake a precarious quiet, a thickness in the air like summer wind but somehow strangely peaceful.

Masato liked cleaning up after performances. There was something about polishing the boards and putting away the scenery scrims, reorganizing the dressing rooms and helping the orchestra sort through music sheets again that felt comforting to him. Perhaps it was the order, a sense of ends being tied up neatly, or the spirituality of conclusion especially after Easter.

He stood at the center of the stage, looking out at the auditorium of the conservatorio. So many seats, and they'd all been filled at Easter. He heard the commotion backstage as the taller stronger boys, the boys with more dexterity and power in their long limbs and slender forms, boys like him, moved podia and risers, but Masato stood at the center of the stage in the dimly lit auditorium, staring out at the empty seats.

The smell of melted wax was sweet, like the dust on the rafters overhead. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat of the footlights, so many shimmering candles and the way it felt to take a deep breath, ribs stretching, heart racing, and his vocal chords vibrating under the paint as his entire body tensed with the power, the emotion tugging the _aria _this way and that, of his volition and his alone.

The freedom in singing was incomparable, unmatched and unsurpassed.

His heart thundered just to remember it.

"Masato—"

There was a whistle, a heckling whistle, followed by a distinct chuckle. Masato looked quickly to the wings of the stage, where Ren leaned against brushed velvet curtains and Otoya with that rupture of red hair of his laughed to finally have Masato's attention.

"Come on, then, and stop daydreaming," Ren demanded, in that tone of his like burnt silk. Yes, that's what sprang to mind when Masato thought of it: burnt silk. His jaw tightened. Otoya caught on to Ren's jests and mimed a few bouquets being thrown, both dissolving into laughter like children might.

Masato crouched down and scooped up one of the rags he'd been cleaning the footlight shells with. He threw it at Ren, who ducked and smoothed his hair again as if Masato had really mussed it, and ignoring them without much effort, Masato went back to what he was doing.

* * *

><p><em>My soul, your spices, should no more be myrrh. For only with the splendor of the laurel wreath will the anxious longing be satisfied...<em>

The _aria_ would be stuck in his head for weeks on end. Sometimes he found himself humming it when he was distracted, lying in bed with a hand thrown over his temple and eyes closed as he tried to rest for a moment before the next lesson exhausted him even further.

"Syo! You did such an amazing job the other night!"

"Syo, your voice was just... I can't even tell you."

"Syo, do you think one day I'll be able to sing the way you do?"

"Syo, I want to sing opposite you one of these days..."

"Syo, there's no prima donna better than you, not even Masato! You could have fooled the Doge himself in that gown..."

And of course there was Natsuki's praise, which Syo was hardly surprised by anymore:

"Syo, you're adorable. You're beautiful. You're talented. You leave me in awe sometimes, _bello_."

There were letters piled on the desk in the corner of the room, with the clusters of flowers and ribbon-tied notes from love-struck ladies.

Syo shoved the gazette from the haphazardly stacked correspondences and sighed, slumping lower in the narrow chair at the desk. The light from outside filtered in through the windows, a pale slant. It didn't matter how many times the servants (or boys being disciplined, and Syo knew that routine well enough) scrubbed the glass; the panes were always a little dingy, as if a layer of dust had irreparably fixed itself over the window. From the desk, Syo could see the domes of San Marco in the distance, gulls and other seabirds dipping and cawing over the water.

Somewhere down the hall, the woodwinds class was in session. The younger boys were always so excited to play. Syo remembered being that way. He remembered pretending to play all the more difficult pieces until the maestro had slapped the back of his head with a bundle of music sheets, letting him know that his little scheme had not gone unnoticed.

There was a letter with a familiar emblem on it, an intricate little escutcheon emblazoned by winged lions and crossed swords: the crest of the Kurusu family.

_Kaoru_.

Syo ripped the letter open before he thought about it, listening to a group of boys pass outside his room, loud footsteps, hushed voices, the whisper of clothes. A seabird swooped low by the window. Syo had always thought it lucky to have a room with a view of the Canal, but sometimes he felt so choked up, he wished he was closer to the courtyard.

His eyes moved swiftly over the letter. He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other like a man casually going about business. He didn't read half of it before he opened the drawer in the desk and shoved it in, moving on to other notes. Such as the one from a Scarlatti, and what did it say?

_I look forward to seeing the reputed prima donna of di Saotome at the Christmas opera, when I'll be back in Venice for the theatre season_...

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><p>"Haruka!"<p>

She stopped with a little rap of tiny feet on the faded floors of the hall, turning halfway to meet his eyes over her shoulder. Her hair was pinned up, her eyes as bright as ever, and the smile that dimpled her cheeks imbued such warmth into Otoya's chest that he had to smile back, laughing below his breath.

The velvet and brocade of her gown rustled as she hurried over to him, a little pitter-patter of dainty feet in French slippers. She was from the Pietá, the orphanage where girls sang just like boys did at the conservatorio, but she was the headmaster's niece and her visits were frequent and relished. All the boys loved her for her fashion and sweet smiles; she loved all the boys for their conversation over hot chocolate and sliced fruit, conversation that she said was more intellectual than conversation with any other regular man.

"Otoya," she breathed, stretching on her toes to give him a kiss on both cheeks. Her hands were warm and soft on his shoulders, and he hoisted her up another inch or two with his palms at her hips. She laughed. He laughed, too. Her nails were nice as she pushed hair out of his eyes and he lowered her back to the floor. There were pearls in her hair.

"The Oratorio..." Haruka began.

"It was Bach," Otoya explained.

"It was _beautiful!_" Haruka promised, with a dreamy sigh. "I went to each night of it and I wished it would never end. You did amazing. Your coloratura, you have such an incredible range..."

Otoya pulled her to his chest in another crushing hug and her giggles slipped through the silence of the hall. They swayed together for a moment or two, as close as brother and sister, and then with a trailing of fingers on a lingering palm, Haruka waved at him over her shoulder and disappeared into her uncle's office.

And when Otoya turned towards the stairs again, it was Reiji that he saw smirking at him from around the corner.

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><p>Beyond the courtyard with its moss-covered gods and goddesses, stone cherubs pouring water from stone shells at the centers of fountains, the stretch of loggia and cloisters hung with Murano lamps, vines twisting along the balusters, within the Renaissance walls of limestone, brick, and plaster, the Conservatorio di Saotome was a school.<p>

There were the dormitories, of course, the hall of bedrooms and the refectory, the infirmary, the washrooms, the dressing rooms, the row of offices for servants and maestros and the great salon where no boy was allowed unless called for, and then the long hall of classrooms. One wing was for voice and counterpoint; another was for instrumental practice and musical composition; another yet was dedicated to necessary studies from rhetoric to arithmetic to politics, and naturally there was also the conservatorio chapel near the auditorium.

And on the stage was _her_, the most beautiful woman in the world. And she was singing, an _arietta _like sweet gold spun into sound. Pure and weightless, it elevated the soul and didn't transcend but warped and distorted the boundaries of echoes as her chest heaved with the notes, powdered breast so elegant and yet so succulent. And there were not many real women on the stage, claiming the prima donna roles, but if there ever was to be one, _she_ was the most perfect. _She _was the only one worth seeing, the only one with all the qualities. She was flawlessness incarnate, in sumptuous _turchino_ velvet and silk, pearls and diamonds and rubies...

"And what, signore, makes you so much more precious than the other worthy pupils in this room that you might _nap_ while the rest of us dedicate ourselves to practice, hnm?"

Ren pried his eyes open, a little wave of adrenaline throbbing through him—but just a chill, and only a chill.

Every other student in the room gawked at him. They ranged of all ages, some as young as fourteen but with talent quickly getting closer to rivaling the maestro's. Surely, there was Syo—and that violinist, Natsuki—the twins with the auburn hair. But some of his classmates looked angry, taking the side of Maestro Hyuuga, who had pinned Ren with a rather cross glare.

There went the vision of _her_, flitting away like a moth on the breeze, dissolving like mist in the sunlight.

"My apologies, Maestro," Ren sighed, and he couldn't refuse a smirk—he simply couldn't. "I just thought we'd moved beyond the trillsa long time before. This is the advanced class, isn't it?"

Somebody in the midst of the other students snorted, choking back a laugh. Syo, beyond his mess of blond hair, looked aghast that Ren should speak to the maestro in that fashion, and the auburn-haired twin who had been demonstrating his best _portamenti_ turned red in embarrassment as more laughter rippled through the classroom.

Maestro Hyuuga's face pinched in a gruff scowl. His footsteps boomed as he paced for a moment, heels scuffing the faded floorboards. The sunlight filtering into the classroom was a little dusty, and Ren's smile faded when the maestro's eyes fell on him again, sharper than ever. His voice was raspy as it cut through the tense silence:

"I had you in mind to be one of the singers I take touring the villas in July, but how can I choose you if you don't care to strive for perfection, Ren?"

By midnight, Ren's throat ached and his voice was scratchy. But _she_ was there in the back of his mind, and that echoing gossamer _aria_ had prompted him to prove the maestro wrong after he'd asked him to return after dinner, half punishment and half redemption as Ren's voice climbed and descended any melody the maestro demanded of him.

Masato wouldn't talk to him when he slipped back into the room they shared, the French clocks reading one in the morning and the candles already snuffed, but Ren knew Masato had waited awake until he'd come to bed. He could tell by the book sitting on the upholstered chair, abandoned as if Masato had scrambled into place under the blankets the moment he heard the hinges creak.

* * *

><p>And in another room at the same time, as the little hands on imported clocks slipped forward, Natsuki Shinomiya pushed loose locks out of his face and reached up under the iron edges of his spectacles, rubbing at eyes that felt full of sand in his exhaustion.<p>

"What happened to this book?" he asked, lifting _The Newtonian Science_ and inspecting the frayed damaged spine, the crooked pages. He frowned, lifting his eyes to meet Syo's where Syo pulled the blankets around his shoulders and watched from the other corner of the room. The scent of blackened candle wicks was fresh, the bluish-gray smoke still reaching in little tendrils towards the ceiling.

"I don't know," Syo said, and Natsuki did not sense the lie in his voice. "Come to bed, come on. I'll pass out soon if you don't."

And Natsuki thought that Syo looked the best in the moonlight that hit the planes of his pale heart-shaped face when he crawled into bed with him, wide eyes the blue of a winter sky and yet full of shadows at the same time, and nothing was more perfect than falling asleep with his cheek on Syo's shoulder and the smell of Syo's skin filling his nose. Sometimes he smelled like greasepaint and dusty velvet, scalloped lace, the salty sweet perfume of hair that has been stuffed in hood or cap or wig for hours on end while a determined boy worked hard.

It was only friendly, of course, sharing body heat and protecting each other from nighttime fears. And _Don't worry_, Syo always said, that cute little whisper that gave Natsuki butterflies, _just sleep, and I'll take your glasses off when you're dreaming._

Natsuki could only hope he treated Syo as thoughtfully as that.

* * *

><p><em>The curtain rises again...<em>


	3. an arrival

**APPASSIONATA – A TEARING OF SOULS**

**Disclaimers:** I do not own.

**Warnings/Ratings:** **M** in general, though ranging from **T** – **M**, for mature scenes and ideas, sometimes explicit activity, use and abuse and castration of pretty boys, dark themes, superfluous remarks on Venice's beauty, and references to any and all decadent 18th century secrets and vices

* * *

><p><em>appassionata, <em>_part the first_

_la primavera_

* * *

><p><strong>III. <strong>an arrival

It was not normal for the sky to look as bleached and sullen as it did that day, a silvery stretch of silky clouds and misting rain that lent to the lilies and orchids and painted roses in the courtyard a soft glow. It was turning to May, after all, but the rainy season lingered. It always lingered, especially over Venice, city of water itself. The filtered light touched the world with a sleepy sort of beauty, and Otoya paused at the edge of a cloister to reach out from under the stone arcades and let the drizzling rain prick at his open hands.

He leaned out, peering up at the sky. There was the echo of life from everywhere—voices and movement in the courtyard, the muffled sound of lessons and activity inside the halls, the trickle of water from the mouth of a stone lion carved into the wall near a broad walnut door, the slap of water somewhere beyond the pacific seclusion of the conservatorio where the crooked streets ended abruptly over the water of the Canal and gondoliers passed, crying _Stali! _and _Premi!_ Laughter, somewhere, like light flashing off pearls, and there was such quietude to the world, it made Otoya antsy in anticipation of the coming holiday. The Sensa was coming, Ascension Day, when only the most refined of the conservatorio's students would parade around with other finely dressed Venetians, singing to them like the choir would in the Basilica, and boats covered in flowers and paper lanterns would follow the Doge's grand gold vessel to the lagoon where he'd toss the ring into the sea. And then two weeks of Carnival would commence.

Carnival.

Otoya loved the Carnival.

And after the Carnival, that sweet fortnight of festivity like temporary release from life's normal shackles, of wine and singing and wine and dancing and wine and masks and wine and carousing in the Piazza, Maestro Hyuuga would announce which group of boys would accompany him on tour through the villas at the Brenta and the lake, performing for sojourning and local nobles who might just open doors for some of their dreams. That was where a lot of great stars got their start, the country villas—surely, Vivaldi and Cafarelli and painters like Vinicio. Maestro Hyuuga had spent season after season at the villas, performing himself. How else had he created a name for himself before he'd lost his voice? And the boys who toured with him already had a measure of fame by mere association, but imagine the opportunity, the simple wonders of staying in a country villa! There would be balls, and banquets, and hunting, and swimming in the lakes...

It would be a far cry from not really remembering your parents, wouldn't it?

Surely there was some deeper design to the certainty Otoya felt that he would one day be fine dining in a lavish house wearing crushed velvet and imported satin, paste buckles and many splendid rings, too many invitations to sing for too many eager households, candlelight flickering from glinting silver candlesticks, and loved ones situated around him—except that was where the image brutally felt like fantasy again, because who, exactly, would be the loved ones enjoying such a life with him?

A younger class was singing when Otoya made it back to his room. Their voices were soft and melodious, like honey if honey were a sound.

And the door from the hall to his room was open, and the old valet with the hollow cheekbones and flyaway hair like tinsel stolen from some funereal parade struggled to move three trunks at once through the threshold, and there was Maestro Hyuuga, arms crossed and his usual expression of impatient indifference quite plain, but when his eyes lit upon Otoya, who was very confused, his face softened. Just a bit.

"Otoya," he greeted, voice husky. He never spoke too loud, as if embarrassed of losing the voice that had almost made him widely famous. And he was so tall, suddenly he intimidated Otoya a little where he stood gruffly like some effeminate bravo at his bedroom door.

"Maestro," Otoya returned, brow knotting. "Have I switched rooms?"

"Hardly." The maestro gestured with a jerk of the chin into the room, where the valet with the wild hair was accepting a few coins from a stranger, and the stranger was standing near Otoya's bed. Otoya's heart gave a little sickening jump, eyes widening.

The stranger was tall, and slim, and dressed in fine clothes like the self in Otoya's mind when he imagined his future. His hair was dark, neatly combed, and the lashes around his wide impassive eyes were as smoky as if he'd painted them. But he hadn't. He looked considerably distracted, as if he didn't see the valet even as he handed him zecchini, and the lace at his throat matched the lace at his wrists and the buttons down the front of his slate blue waistcoat glimmered pristine silver.

"This is Tokiya Hayato," Maestro Hyuuga explained, and there came the decree:

"Please welcome your new roommate warmly, Otoya."

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><p><em>The curtain rises again...<em>


	4. an arrival, part deux

**APPASSIONATA – A TEARING OF SOULS**

**Disclaimers:** I do not own.

**Warnings/Ratings:** **M** in general, though ranging from **T** – **M**, for mature scenes and ideas, sometimes explicit activity, use and abuse and castration of pretty boys, dark themes, superfluous remarks on Venice's beauty, and references to any and all decadent 18th century secrets and vices

* * *

><p><em>appassionata, <em>_part the first_

_la primavera_

* * *

><p><strong>IV. <strong>an arrival, part deux

_Call yourself my son no longer..._

_My brother, I'm so sorry, I'm so very sorry..._

They did not throw him to the wolves immediately. Quite the contrary, after hearing about rumored discipline and severity at conservatorios such as this one, Tokiya was surprised and somewhat relieved.

No, in fact, the rest of the day after the attendants of the school had helped move his things to his new room had been markedly peaceful. In the office of the headmaster, the Maestro Saotome, the black leather folio containing his papers and legal documents had been sorted through and remarkably enough, nobody had doubted once that he was Tokiya Hayato, the orphan singer the Ichinose house had been sponsoring for years. Maybe there had been a spark of suspicious curiosity in the headmaster's eyes as he squinted at Tokiya in evaluation, listening to him sing to determine which classes he would take after years of private tutorship in some rotting patrician house on the water, but in the end no questions had been asked that Tokiya couldn't answer slickly enough.

They gave him the uniform and red sash, but Tokiya hadn't touched it yet. It was folded on the desk under the window, where there were faded ink stains and notches carved into the wood from some previous student. Tokiya had tried organizing his trunks just do distract himself from the rotten feeling of reality as its claws slipped in for good, anchoring him to this place as the gravity sank in to him heavier and heavier with each passing second. This was the Conservatorio di Saotome. This was his new home—and until _when_, he didn't know, and where his home would be after was as unknown as that.

The bed that was his now was comfortable, actually. It was perfectly soft, if just a little scratchy. He'd have to change into the uniform soon; he felt out of place lying there in a dim sterile dormitory, still wearing the brilliance of a dashing noble child. Even if that dashing noble child was a monster under the brilliance, too tall, too pretty, too talented, mutilated and proud of it.

Tokiya ran his finger over the seams in the walls, where silk paneling met moulding and moulding became plaster. It was far from the luxury of a well-kept Renaissance house, but the school had once been a Renaissance house so the ghost of the luxury was still there.

The room was silent. Tokiya heard every creak of a floorboard up and down the hall, shuffling on the floor below. He heard voices, full conversation or lessons in swing, echoing steadily. There was the muffled but quite consistent roar of instruments from some distant wing—strings, keyboard, woodwinds, an elegant cacophony—and every now and then the silence in the dorm room was broken, interrupted, by that roommate of his that made Tokiya bristle each time he was near.

Unfortunately they'd met right after the noon meal, when students were allowed an hour of recreation before a long afternoon and evening of more lessons. Of course his roommate had tried to strike up conversation, as that was natural, and especially so for his roommate who seemed dreadfully talkative.

"So you're Tokiya?" he'd said once or twice, trying to draw a reply out of the monster in brilliance lying on the narrow bed with a book he'd pulled from one of his trunks. "I'm Otoya. Yeah, so, you really have a lot of luggage, don't you? Where'd you come from? A different school? There are a few transfer students here. You don't really like talking, do you?"

Tokiya met his eyes over his book, coldly. Otoya seemed indifferent. In fact, Tokiya's harsh glance seemed to brighten Otoya's smile, spiteful perhaps or just excited he'd finally gotten a response. It appeared to turn his whole day around, regardless.

Whatever it was, Tokiya was more than grateful for the silence after, when his roommate had gone back to class with all the other students. People like Otoya bothered him, because he knew their secrets. People like Otoya were talkative and kind and thoughtful because there was inevitably some darkness hidden deep within them that they'd learned to protect for some reason.

Tokiya didn't like people like that—people like his new roommate—because people who didn't give in to the darkness within them, people who smiled even when they were sad, were much braver than people like Tokiya. And Tokiya didn't want to think about lacking valor like that right now.

* * *

><p><em>The curtain will rise again shortly...<em>


End file.
